See With One Eye, Feel With The

My Self . . . Is A Dramatic Ensemble. Here A Prophetic Ancestor Makes His Appearance. Here A Brutal Hero Shouts. Here An Alcoholic Bon Vivant Argues With A Learned Professor. Here A Lyric Muse, Chronically Love-struck, Raises Her Eyes To Heaven. Her Papa Steps Forward, Uttering Pedantic Protests. Here The Indulgent Uncle Intercedes. Here The Aunt Babbles Gossip. Here The Maid Giggles Lasciviously. And I Look Upon It All With Amazement, The Sharpened Pen In My Left Hand.

The Pictorial Work Was Born Of Movement, Is Itself Recorded Movement, And Is Assimilated Through Movement (eye Muscles).

Color Possesses Me. I Don't Have To Pursue It. It Will Possess Me Always, I Know It. That Is The Meaning Of This Happy Hour: Color And I Are One. I Am A Painter.

A Certain Fire Pretends To Be Alive; It Awakens. Working Its Way Along The Hand As A Conductor, It Reaches The Support And Engulfs It; Then A Leaping Spark Closes The Circle It Was To Trace, Coming Back To The Eye And Beyond.

The Way To Form Transcends Its Own Destination, Goes Beyond The End Of The Way Itself.